


Layers

by fransoun



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Rodimus is turning Ultra Magnus into a little rule breaker, Strip Tease, Ultra Magnus knows that this should bother him, a little rule breaker inside a big rule breaker, armor removal, but somehow he keeps having trouble getting around to it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:30:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4507851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fransoun/pseuds/fransoun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the dance party at the end of issue 42, there was originally a sequence in which Ultra Magnus removed his armor piece by piece to the tune of "Stayin' Alive" until, at the end of the song, Minimus Ambus was left standing there in the middle of the dance floor instead. A robotic strip tease, if you will.</p><p>This isn't that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Layers

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Xarciel for the title!

_ What had he been thinking? _

In the dimmed light of the captain's quarters, Minimus stared down at the large, white hands of the Magnus armor. They were shaking.

In front of him, Rodimus sat on their berth. For Rodimus, he was being remarkably still - his legs swung back and forth where they dangled over the edge of the berth, and his spoiler twitched up and down as he gazed intently at Magnus, but apart from that, he didn't move  at all.

Magnus couldn't bring himself to meet  his  gaze.

Magnus had promised Rodimus something  _ special _ . He'd  _wanted_ to promise something special, something to show how much Magnus appreciated him and all the patience and the understanding he'd shown with his inexperienced second-in-command.

Rodimus had frowned up at him when he'd first tried to express that gratitude. 

"You don't ever have to thank me for that, Mags."

Magnus had stumbled over his own words, stammering and trying to insist, but Rodimus had hushed him with a gentle finger pressed to his lips. Magnus fell silent as Rodimus furrowed his brow, deep in thought. Then his face lit up.

"It's like...imagine there was a Tyrest Accord for dating, right? This is so important it would have its own section. No matter who you're with - although I gotta be honest, I'd like it to be me - no matter who you're with, you should never, ever have to thank them for that, okay?"

Magnus had stared down into those Matrix-blue optics looking earnestly back up and nodded hesitantly. Rodimus had smiled, and then that smiled had sidled its way into a smirk. "Good. Now, if you want something you  _ can  _ thank me for later..."

And he'd  pulled  Magnus down for a kiss, and one kiss had lead to another, and another, and Magnus had to admit that he'd rather lost  track of his  thoughts after that.

But this time Magnus had wanted to do something special for Rodimus. He'd wanted to take the initiative instead of following Rodimus' lead as he always did in matters of their relationship. He'd wanted to  _show_ Rodimus how much he cared about him instead of telling him (or trying to, fumbling over his always inadequate words).

Rodimus had actually given him the idea one evening in their quarters at the end of a long day. Minimus had been easing himself out of his armor as Rodimus availed himself of the captain's washracks. Staring at his exhausted medical staff, the co-captain had gamely insisted that the welts of melted metal scoring his armor could wait until the next day shift and ordered them all to berth, but he'd reassured Magnus that he would at least rinse off the dirt and scorch marks in the meanwhile. Minimus  was  in the process of removing his chest plate when he'd heard the spray shut off, and he'd turned around to see a dripping Rodimus leaning on the doorframe, grinning at him.

"You know, you could make a show out of that."

Minimus felt the energon rush to his faceplates. He must look a fool, standing there in the middle of the room, balancing on the legs of the Magnus armor like stilts, and Minimus knew it shouldn't matter but it  _hurt_ that Rodimus would mock him like that. 

But a second, closer look at Rodimus' face showed that mockery was the farthest thing from his captain's processor. His optics glowed overbright as they flickered hungrily over Minimus' frame, trying to take all of him in at once, just as they did when Rodimus was feeling particularly - well. Suffice it to say that whenever Magnus saw that look, an armful of revved-up Rodimus was never far behind. 

And that night had been no exception. But in spite of how pleasantly distracting the remainder of that evening had been, Rodimus' words had rephrased themselves and then stuck  themselves  in Magnus' mind. 

_ Put on a show . _

'Stripping', as Magnus discovered it was called ( he'd thought the term only applied to disassembling field rifles, a process with which he was far more familiar and infinitely more comfortable) , wasn't exactly a common Cybertronian  pastime .  Underneath the armor of most mechs lay only their exposed protoform, and divesting themselves of their sole means of protection had, for some reason, not exactly be en  a popular recreational activity over the course of  their  four million year civil war. Magnus knew, from a few accidental nighttime intrusions into what were  _supposed_ to be public areas of the ship (did the crew of the  _ L ost Light  _ have no shame at all?) that some mechs draped cloth over themselves and then slowly removed it to achieve a similar effect. (He hadn't meant to stare, really, he hadn't, but he'd been caught off-guard and he was simply dumbfounded and  flabbergasted  and not at  _all_ a little curious and besides they were in the  _ observation lounge _ , of all places, what else did they  think was going to  happen? Fortunately, Magnus had managed collect his scattered senses and beat a quiet, hasty retreat before the couple in question had ever noticed he was there.  And then, on the way back to his office to write up the offenders, he'd thought of Rodimus for some reason and he'd felt the corners of his mouth ache and an unfamiliar warmth settle on his spark and he'd decided to  wai t t o issue the citations until the next morning after all.) 

But the armor put Magnus in a rather unique position in this regard. Or at least it would have, if he'd even had the slightest idea of what to do. 

First, though, he'd had to figure out if he even  _wanted_ to, and here his captain's influence on him  was already making  itself apparent. "I want to know if  _you_ want to do this, Magnus," Rodimus would always say whenever they were together . He would twine their fingers together as he looked deep into Magnus’ optics.  "I want to know what  _you_ want. "

So Magnus had asked himself that same question -  _ did  _ he _ want  to do this?  _ \- and was more a little surprised to find that his answer was a  nervous but very  emphatic 'yes'. He  wanted to do this. He wanted to do this for  _ Rodimus _ .

Next, of course, he'd had to figure out  _ how _ . Removal of the armor was obviously a primary factor, and there, Magnus ran into his first problem.

He wasn't actually all that good at taking the armor off. 

One hundred and thirteen latches and magnetic locks held the Magnus armor together, each activated by its own pressure pad on the plating above it. Tapping them in a specific order would cause the armor to rise up and wrap itself tightly around the wearer, and tapping them in another would make the armor to loosen its hold and fold back in on itself. Minimus Ambus had committed both sequences to memory. But Tyrest had discouraged their use early on, making it clear that removal of the armor for  _any_ reason would not be tolerated. Doing so would risk compromise, discovery, and that could not be allowed, no matter the cost. 

"You are no longer Minimus Ambus," Tyrest had said, his hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the array of glowing monitors before him. Minimus stood behind him, drawn up to his full height, spinal strut straight, optics straight ahead. This was the most important moment of his existence, even if there was no one here to see it.

"That life is gone now. Henceforth, you are Ultra Magnus, the Duly Appointed Enforcer of my Accord. You shall enforce my Law, impose my Order, and carry out Justice in my name, and you shall wear my armor until you perish - or I decide you are no longer worthy of it."

And Ultra Magnus had donned the armor and obeyed. He had no wish to remember who he was inside the armor. And he'd almost forgotten, almost put it all behind him - until Overlord had run him through, and Ultra Magnus had pressed the recall button in his palm.

In those few months that had passed since Luna 1, Ultra Magnus had taken armor off and put it back on again more times than he had in the last million years.

So Ultra Magnus practiced because if there was one thing he excelled at, it was repetition. Off again, on again, off again, on again, over and over and over again Ultra Magnus could have stripped himself of the armor during recharge.

Next, he’d needed music. But as soon as he’d set foot in Swerve’s bar, the bartender had started protesting.

"I've got my permit from Rodimus right here, and he told me that he cleared it with Megatron, too - "

Ultra Magnus held up his hand. “I would like a copy of every Earth song in your possession, Swerve.”

Swerve gaped. “All -  _all_ of them? That might - er, that might take a while.” He laughed nervously. “Humans, am I right? They haven’t been around for all that long, but they’ve sure made the most of - “

“ _ Swerve_ .”

The bartender had scurried off.

He'd loaded the contents of the data chip Swerve had given him onto a device which, along with a polishing kit and a well-worn datapad, made up the entirety of his worldly possessions - a portable music player. 

Strictly speaking, Ultra Magnus wasn't supposed to have it at all, but he'd been carrying it with him since before the war, when it had housed every snippet and snatch of Cybertronian music he’d ever heard. He had found it... _ difficult _ to give up. After all, music was the only thing in the world that made him - well. Surely it wouldn’t do any harm.

He concealed it in a secret compartment, one of several he’d discovered during his first thorough examination of the Magnus armor. They all appeared to be third-party modifications - albeit of the highest quality, virtually indistinguishable from the original armor - and every single one of them had been empty. Ultra Magnus still occasionally wondered what his predecessors had carried in there before him.

He’d chosen a date in which his shift ended before Rodimus’ and had formally requested his captain’s presence in their habsuite at his earliest convenience. Rodimus had laughed and winked at Magnus and told him he’d be there as soon as he got off duty.

Magnus arrived early to prepare. He dimmed the lights (as their shared quarters were not a corridor, such lighting modifications were permitted, and he’d found that diminished optical input could lead to the heightening of certain... _ other _ sensations) and discovered he was in luck - Rodimus had just commanded the ship into a nebula to gather the raw elements needed to replenish the fuel quills. The large viewscreen in the captain’s suite glowed with luminous colors as the billowing curls of gas brushed against the hull of the   _Lost Light_. 

Even Ultra Magnus could tell that was romantic.

He’d set his portable music player on the table behind him and queued up the song he’d chosen - an Earth tune called “Stayin’ Alive” - with trembling fingers. 

Then all that was left was to nervously pace the berthroom until Rodimus arrived.  


Whe door chime sounded only a few kilks after shift changeover, Magnus knew that Rodimus had been speeding through the corridors again. Instead of feeling annoyed, however, as he should have been, Magnus felt his spark leap in his chest. Rodimus had been eager to get there. Rodimus had been eager to get to  _ him _ . 

So he’d opened the door, and as Rodimus had stepped into the darkened room with its romantic view his optics had gone wide and he’d started to grin, already reaching for Magnus’ waist, but Magnus had stepped back and and formally taken Rodimus’ hand in his instead and Rodimus had looked confused but he’d allowed Magnus to escort him to the berth and then Magnus had returned and pressed play on the music and - and -

_ What had he been thinking? _

He had done this all wrong. 

He'd practiced taking the armor off like a soldier, like an  _ Enforcer _ \- every movement crisp and precise, designed to minimize time and maximize efficiency, better suited to a barracks than a berthroom. This - this 'strip tease' was supposed to be slow and sensual. It was supposed to entice and arouse. It was supposed to be everything Magnus had no idea how to be and do everything Magnus had no idea how to do. 

Magnus' joints had frozen solid, and it felt as though his fuel tank was slowly filling with ice.

The song ended. The  portable music player clicked off. 

Rodimus shifted on the berth.

“Uh, Mags, am I missing something? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was a great song and all, but if you really wanted to listen to Earth music that badly, we could have just gone to Swerve’s -”

“Put on a show,” Magnus croaked, still staring down at his shaking hands. He couldn’t bring himself to lift his optics.  _ Laughingstock. Failure _ _._

“What?”

“Taking off my armor,” Magnus managed. “You said - you said I could ‘make a show out of it’ and I - I - “

In the silence of their quarters, Magnus heard the quick in-vent of air. 

"Oh,  _ Magnus_."

Finally,  _ finally_, Magnus lifted his helm and met Rodimus' gaze. 

The gaseous swirls of the nebula, illuminated from within by the stars igniting in its depths, gleamed faintly on the speedster's plating as Rodimus slipped off the berth and paced toward Magnus, hips swaying, a faint smile on his face .  Magnus felt his intakes hitch. By any objective set of standards, no matter how rigorously applied, Rodimus was a gorgeous mech. 

What could he possibly see in the likes of Magnus?

Rodimus came to a stop in front of him, still smiling, and Magnus stared down at him, vocalizer clicking as it reset itself in a vain attempt to speak. 

His captain hooked a single slim, flicker-flame yellow finger over the broad blue stretch of Magnus' collar fairing and gave it the lightest of tugs.

In front of Rodimus, Ultra Magnus fell to his knees.

"Rodimus, I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely, and he could feel the shame welling up in the lubricant behind his optics. He bowed his head. "I'm sorry I couldn't do this for you. I’m sorry I couldn’t - ”

"Shhhhh."  Rodimus brought his hand up to Magnus' face and gently cupped his cheek in his palm. Magnus shuddered from helm to pedes, shuttering his optics and leaning into the touch. “Shhhhhh.”

And then Rodimus' mouth was on his. 

Desperately, Magnus returned the kiss, desperate to make sure that Rodimus still  _wanted_ him. Rodimus twined his arms around Magnus' neck and nestled himself nice and close and  _hot_ between Magnus’ splayed legs, pressing up against his panel, grinding his hips in sensuous little circles, silken metal rasping against the high inside of Magnus’ thighs and setting the circuits underneath on fire with desire. Magnus tried to lose himself in the sensation, in Rodimus' warmth, in the stinging pleasure of the crackling sparks now leaping back and forth between their frames. It all set Magnus' fuel pump to pounding, and he wrapped his arms tightly around Rodimus, crushing the speedster against his chest as fingertips trailed possessively over that wonderfully sensitive spoiler. Rodimus shivered, going weak in his embrace, and a desperate, needy moan spilled from his parted lips. 

Rodimus kissed Magnus, and Magnus kissed Rodimus, and for a while, the rest of the universe didn't seem to matter at all.

After a time, Rodimus pulled away only to lean in again, lips grazing over Magnus' cheek before coming to rest pressed soft and wet and against his audials.

"Let me help you."


End file.
